


#dammi tre parole

by luce_incanto



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Festival di Sanremo RPF, Music RPF
Genre: Bad Humor, Elevator Sex, Friendship, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Trapped In Elevator, but maybe to the characters too, can i write anything without needing this tag? nope i can't, cause let's be honest, hashtag #sonouncretino applies to the author of this thing, how can you have those two without humor?, if you find plot report to me, yep true friendship here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22453957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luce_incanto/pseuds/luce_incanto
Summary: sesso in ascensore(do you really need further descriptions here?)
Relationships: Ermal Meta/Fabrizio Moro
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	#dammi tre parole

**Author's Note:**

> it was intended as a birthday gift, cause apparently i am now the person who writes p0rn for a friend's birthday. but me and deadlines don't mix well and finishing on time is beyond my humble abilities, even if i started it in september. but, here we are, a month after the deadline.
> 
> title/description are a reference to this ----> https://twitter.com/MetaErmal/status/1011559891855691776
> 
> set somewhere during the Lisbon week  
> (and for the record, i, personally, don't have anything against Elisa, but one of my characters does xD)

Ermal is tapping his fingers on the glass, the clinking sound rhythming with his thoughts and annoying everyone else, which is exactly his goal.

The day wasn’t _that_ awful, but it could’ve been a lot better if only a certain Elisa didn’t make an appearance again, or if she didn’t take such an immediate liking to Fabrizio from the first time they met, of if Fabrizio himself didn’t enjoy her attentions more and more with each passing day. If, if, if. The only one really annoyed here was himself.

Ermal huffs, throwing another look at the happy couple in front of him at the bar counter of their hotel, their attention directed at each other, all inviting smiles and hints. There is no place left for him, which is probably okay, since he isn’t into threesomes and is even less into Elisa. So uncomplicated, so direct and unsubtle, almost easy in the most unflattering way – she doesn’t have any layers, any shred of mystery in her and isn’t, therefore, his type at all. To be honest, he always thought that it wasn’t Fabri’s type either.

But whatever.

He downs the last sip of champagne in his glass, throws them a curt goodbye, and leaves, allowing everyone to finally rest from his incessant clinking and irritated looks.

He waits for the elevator to arrive, feeling a bit down, as if the day actually _was_ awful, as if deep inside he was hurt by the fact that the focus of Fabrizio’s attention shifted away from him so suddenly, despite everything they went through together and despite… all those other things between them.

It’s hard to acknowledge even to himself that his moods recently have been tied to one particular person. 

There are a lot of things on his plate – interviews and preparations, nervous countdown to the day when they will have to perform in front of millions of people, but somehow everything fades into the background, becoming white noise, when it comes to Fabrizio.

Ermal sighs, and then he hears quick steps behind.

“Wait!” Fabri puffs as he stops next to him, clapping on his shoulder, and Ermal shrugs his hand off, irritated. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’m not staying here without you, no one understands me anyway,” his tone is sincere, but he can’t be that clueless, can he?

“You had a great understanding with Elisa today, didn’t you?”

The elevator arrives and Ermal steps in, patiently waiting for Fabri to enter, too, as he frowns and touches his hair sheepishly. And doesn’t answer, as if the question was as rhetorical as it pretended to be.

Ermal slams the button of their floor with too much vigor, not bothering to conceal his displeasure. He is a bit tipsy, and it totally justifies his childish behavior and the way he rolls his eyes, when Fabrizio smiles at him soothingly.

This smile, this softness just make the rage in his heart boil angrier, louder, make him want to snap, to charge forward, pushing Fabrizio against the wall, make this smile _go away,_ bite it off his face –

oh well, maybe that’s a bit too much.

Ermal draws his gaze away from his face quickly, bites his own lips instead. He won’t give in to his emotions, especially when they are like this, violent and wild, churning inside, seeping into his blood little by little, poisoning his rational thinking and whispering into his ears.

 _Just give in._ How good would it feel to finally snap? To say out loud everything that’s been corroding him from the inside? He’s so tired of pretending, but he won’t let himself go, he’s in control. Instead he tries to concentrate on the present, but there is not much to look at in this confined space except Fabrizio, who’s also studying him, still with a smile.

And this smile is a bit _too_ shiny.

There are many things Fabrizio is, but unobservant isn’t one of them, especially around Ermal – he always notices his mood swings, his boredom or his melancholy, he always tries to make him feel better, almost as if he enjoyed taking care of him. But now… now he’s just smiling, seraphic, making the storm inside Ermal’s chest rage stronger.

Almost like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Could it be? Could it be that Fabrizio is playing him, and that’s why he looks so thoughtless and uncaring instead of apologizing for leaving him alone for the evening, for spending days with Elisa, almost ignoring him? But it also might mean that Fabri sees not less, but much more than he lets on, that he understands things Ermal wouldn’t want him to understand, that his secrets, even those kept close to his soul, under many layers of fashionable clothing, under cryptic silences and words full of irony, are not as safe as he thought. The very idea of being that naked before another person frightens him more than anything.

So no, better to think it’s not possible. After all, Ermal’s very good at concealing things, be it bruises on his face or bruises on his heart; no one ever notices. And it’s better that way. He doesn’t want anyone to notice, that’s why he hides them, right?

Ermal sighs, scowls and looks at his feet, hoping that Fabri won’t say anything more and at the same time hoping that he will, and waits impatiently for the elevator to reach their floor. He doesn’t know why Fabrizio even came after him, it was quite obvious he was having fun, so why did he –

And then Fabrizio presses the button.

The _stop_ button. Red, round, dangerous-looking, glowing like a poisonous mushroom in the semi-darkness of the elevator. You don’t push this button on a whim. But Fabri is a rebel, isn’t he?

The elevator stops smoothly.

One, two…

“What the fuck, Fabri?!” explodes Ermal on three, stepping closer, pointing a finger at his chest. “I just want to go to my room and get some sleep, is it too much to ask?”

Lights flicker. Dangerously, almost like in horror movies.

Fabrizio looks up at the ceiling, confused, and in any other situation Ermal would find this expression adorable, but right now he’s too irritated. And fucking tired of all this bullshit.

“Sorry, I didn’t really think this through,” Fabri says sheepishly, shrugging, and it shouldn’t look charming.

“I don’t care,” Ermal sighs, suddenly feeling defeated. He doesn’t want to argue, especially with Fabrizio, especially when he clearly didn’t do anything wrong. It’s Ermal who is wrong, his feelings, his thoughts, his desires and expectations – and why should someone else pay the price for this? “Just… push the green button, please. If you want to talk, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Where?” Fabrizio asks, frowning, and it takes them both a couple of minutes to understand that there is no green button.

Ermal sighs and presses the button of the first floor instead. Nothing happens, so he presses another one, with a bit more anger, and then another, until Fabrizio catches his hand.

“Don’t, you are going to – “

 _Buh. Crrr crr crrr crrrrrr hrgh_ says the elevator excitedly and moves a bit down, then a bit up, undecided, then stops suspended somewhere in between with a loud rattle. Ermal flinches, unintentionally stepping closer to Fabri, who tightens his hand and becomes a bit whiter, too.

The elevator lets out a satisfied _crrr_ and the lights go out.

Before the two of them can start panicking, emergency lights kick in, reddish and dim, not exactly calming, but thank god they don’t flicker at least. It’s scary to think they are suspended in the air somewhere between tenth and eleventh floor, so Ermal very carefully doesn’t think about it, instead glaring at Fabrizio, who at least tries to look apologetic.

“I’ll text Paolo,” he says quickly. “The connection is bad, but a text will do…” he types something quickly, squinting at the screen, and Ermal, even more irritated now, cannot hold his poisonous tongue.

“Oh wow, didn’t know you could type with such speed, have you been doing special courses for the elderly?”

Fabrizio raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, and okay, this wasn’t a very good jab.

“Paolo’s on it,” he says, putting the phone away.

Ermal sighs wearily, dropping to the floor in the corner. It’s a high-class hotel and the elevator here has a rag all over the floor, a big fancy mirror and some kind of velvet on the walls, so at least it’s comfortable to sit. But the space is still so small, so crowded with him and Fabrizio pointedly not looking at each other (or is it just him _not_ looking?), and every breath is a step closer to feeling claustrophobic.

Ermal doesn’t like feeling trapped, doesn’t like the way his mind slowly spins out of control. He checks his phone, but there’s no connection, so he cannot even amuse himself with twitter for a while.

He’s tired after a long day, he’s still a bit angry, and as the silent seconds tick by, the tension in the air concentrates instead of dissipating, makes him struggle for every breath, makes him feel like someone sucked the oxygen out of the cabin. Red dimness doesn’t help and walls, covered with velvet, remind him of a closed room in some medieval castle, hiding a lot of dangerous secrets, the most dangerous right across him on the floor, magnetic black eyes drawing his gaze inevitably. Ermal stubbornly resists. 

He wishes Fabri would say something, would break this unbearable tension, but he only sighs, too, pulls at his already unbuttoned shirt, rolls up his sleeves, baring skin, a lot of skin, his tattoos on display and his fingers scratching the hole in his jeans restlessly. Ermal isn’t looking at his face, still, but he cannot force himself to look away from those arms, from the way Fabri’s throat moves in the open collar of his shirt, from the way the letters on his chest seem to ripple with each breath. He’s seen Fabrizio without clothes a couple of times, he sees him in the open shirt almost daily, but he’s never had the time and opportunity to just… look. The light is dim, his eyelids almost closed and he won’t be caught sneaking glances, so he can caress Fabri’s skin with his eyes all he wants. He swallows, mouth quickly getting dry. It’s funny how little he needs those days to stop thinking straight and stop thinking entirely, his brain short-circuiting and refusing to cooperate.

It’s not enough, though. He wants to touch _, he always does_ , to draw a line with his finger from Fabri’s lips to his chest, to see him shudder and sigh into his mouth, to throw away that white shirt, which makes him look too good, attracts too many unwanted gazes. Unwanted for Ermal, of course, cause Fabri himself doesn’t even notice those and still has the audacity to frown at his reflection in the mirror, to ask if he looks too aged today. But he looks _good,_ so damn good, today and tomorrow, in a shirt or without it, and Ermal is not to blame if he slips all the time, telling the journalists how handsome Fabri is, how everyone wants him, omitting only the fact that it is _he_ who wants him most. 

He wants a lot of things, but he only sits silently in his corner, trying to calm down, to be patient. 

The tension is getting to him, though, and there are too many thoughts, too many feelings, too much Fabrizio – in his life, in his head, in this elevator. It’s like he managed to occupy all the space inside, every single bit of it, and Ermal doesn’t have a chance, he won’t be able to just wait for their rescue patiently, unbothered. He tries to move his numb leg and brushes Fabri’s, he closes his eyes, forbidding himself to look, and wonders if Fabri’s looking, he thinks about falling asleep and instead listens to his breathing, so clear, he can almost imagine it on his own skin, a hot caress. They are too close, tied up together, and there is no way out of this.

It’s fucking unbearable.

It’s too easy to imagine crossing the small space between them, watching Fabri lick his lips when their faces get closer slowly, slow- _ly_ , as if Ermal actually had the patience he doesn’t. It’s even easier to imagine his response, the fire in his eyes, his hands in his hair, pulling hard… oh, sometimes having a great imagination is a curse, not a blessing.

Ermal licks his lips and tries thinking about something else.

But what? His world is so small now, confined within the walls of the elevator, and his world consists only of Fabrizio with his irresistible eyes and a damn smile, reflected in a mirror as if to mock him more.

Ermal feels like screaming.

He only sighs again and finally looks up at Fabri, meeting his eyes. Fabri’s watching him from the other corner, contemplative, and, finally managing to catch his gaze, immediately stands up to get closer. But what Ermal doesn’t need at all, is his space to get even smaller.

“Ermal, I’m really sorry, but if we have this time anyway, don’t you wanna talk about – “

“Don’t touch me,” Ermal snaps, getting up on his feet as soon as Fabri lands near him, a reassuring hand on his knee, another one ready to get caught in his curls. He appreciates those touches usually, he even asks for them indirectly, with gestures and hints, but right now those hands would feel scorching on his skin, right now he doesn’t want them anywhere near him, afraid of the consequences. His pants already seem a bit too tight, the vivid pictures of what might happen are still alive in his mind, and he doesn’t want to be humiliated, nope, he doesn’t. “And I don’t want to talk, I just want to get out of here. Return to my room.” To his bed. Or maybe shower. Somewhere private, where he can let out all this mad tension, biting his lips to be silent and forcing himself not to think of those moments in the elevator, not to imagine things that won’t happen.

Shouldn’t happen.

He’s too tense as he leans on the wall, plush fabric brushing his fingers, and even the fear of the elevator falling down at any moment is far on his mind, because the tension under his skin is of another kind.

He doesn’t want Fabrizio too close, but they really don’t have much space in here – even if the mirror pretends to double it, the dimness of the light still steals the corners. Looking from above, he can barely see Fabri’s face, the expression on it, and maybe it’s for the better. 

“It’s too hot in here, I can’t breathe,” Ermal sighs, almost apologizing for his harsh tone earlier, pretending that it’s just the stuffiness inside getting to him. He didn’t mean to be rude, after all, it’s not Fabrizio’s fault he drives him crazy with just his closeness and an open shirt.

Too many repressed thoughts and feelings are a more reasonable thing to blame, but Ermal chooses not to continue this thought.

Does Fabrizio look at him still? Does he see the way he bites his lips and pulls the sleeves of his shirt, how he sighs and tries to find a better position against the wall and a way to bear the situation for a bit longer, dampen his unwanted excitement? He probably doesn’t, he didn’t even notice Ermal being angry all evening, until he got fed up and walked out. Maybe he _is_ unobservant. Or maybe he just stopped caring for some reason.

The reason has a name, starting with an _e_ , and unfortunately, it’s not _his_ name.

This realization hurts, and it’s good, he _should_ remember why he even was angry in the first place, it might help with keeping his head. Fabri likes Elisa’s company more than his, and that’s alright, he’s allowed, she’s considered beautiful, after all. By somebody. 

But…

… but damn it, he thought there really _was_ something between him and Fabri, that they were moving somewhere, making steps, baby steps, yes, hesitant and slow, but together. Holding hands with closed eyes, pretending that until they cannot see each other, it’s not scary; carefully leaving everything unsaid, but still feeling it between the lines. In every smile, in each caress, in a shiny _good morning_ after a late night together, spent telling stories and exchanging gazes. Gazes growing more and more obvious, until one day the balance surely must tip over.

Ermal was waiting for this day. He could almost feel it around the corner, the words of confession bubbling in his throat more and more insistently, but he was still not ready, so he kept dragging it out. The sweet silences, the bolder touches – he liked this game and he wasn’t going to abandon it too soon.

Reality is always scarier than the worst fantasy, and he couldn’t let go of this beautiful butterfly feeling of standing on the edge of something wonderful. Couldn’t, because friendship with Fabri, so unexpected and beautiful, was too nice to risk it, too vital to him in so many ways, to the point that he wasn’t sure he could cope with being the one to ruin it. Couldn’t, because there weren’t a lot of chances for this to work out, because he wasn’t so sure if he imagined Fabri’s attention or if it really was there, because he’s never felt this way about a man before, because it’s just the way he was, overthinking and cautious, and because…

because he was plain scared.

Terrified.

He needed time to admit to it and overcome it, to be sure of his desires and feelings, needed more and more time to finally get to this point of no return, which he couldn’t even imagine clearly, so far behind the horizon it was.

And meanwhile, Fabrizio got tired of waiting.

Or maybe he didn’t, maybe their shared understandings, their beautiful complicity, all of this, wasn’t even real, was all his imagination and Fabri’s way of behaving with friends and strangers, his way of being good to everyone.

That possibility makes Ermal even more angry, first of all at himself, for mistaking friendly affection for something more, for wanting it so badly, but the mirror of the elevator reflects his rage at the only other person in its vicinity.

Fabrizio, again.

But ah, it’s so damn hot in here.

He licks his dry lips, again, stubbornly closes his eyes to stop following every Fabri’s movement with a hungry gaze. He shouldn’t have worn those tight pants, which do nothing to alleviate his situation.

“Well, if it’s hot, unbutton a bit,” Fabri grumbles from the floor.

Ermal throws him a look that could burn a person alive, and opens the top button, irritated – he knows it won’t help, not even a little.

Fabrizio actually has the audacity to laugh at him, shaking his head, amused.

“That’s not how you do it, Ermal,” he says and gets up again, this time slower, then steps closer, giving him a couple of seconds to escape, but this time Ermal only swallows and stays where he is, unable to move, like a little bird in front of a snake, its hypnotic movements lulling it into a false sense of safety. He watches Fabri smile in the mirror over his shoulder, as he approaches him from behind, making him step away from the wall. His gestures are reassuring and soft, but there’s a glint deep down in his eyes, which doesn’t promise anything good. It looks dangerous, and Ermal stops breathing for some reason, his heart tapping in his throat erratically, when Fabrizio’s hands go around his waist from behind and free the second button from the top, fingers firm and assured. And then one more.

 _Oh._ That’s exactly what he was afraid of, closeness, too much closeness. _Touches._ He should step away, run.

But there is nowhere to run, he’s caught between Fabrizio and his reflection, like a desperate prey, cornered by two hunters.

Ermal’s pulse picks up with each second, breathing becoming short, shallow, but he stays where he is, watching the fingers slowly undoing his defenses.

He always focuses on those fingers a lot, weirdly, often watches Fabri tap them on the leather of the couch, caress his knee absent-mindedly, his lips or his chin. For some reason Ermal wonders sometimes what would they feel like on _his_ bare skin, or maybe even on his lips, or maybe –

no, he shouldn’t finish this thought, but he does, and his pants become even tighter. It’s embarrassing how little he needs, the atmosphere so oppressing, time slowing down, as if they were in a dream, as if there was no world outside this small metal box, almost sizzling from all the heat. The world doesn’t really matter now.

His face burns, but the reddish light and the dimness of the elevator hide this secret well, conceal his reaction from Fabrizio’s attentive dark eyes, which seem to follow every movement. Ermal bites his lips involuntary when Fabri’s fingers brush his skin once, twice, light caresses disguised as an accident. It’s too little, but he doesn’t want to break the spell, isn’t even sure how to ask for what he wants, so he just breathes in and out, trying not to tremble.

Another button opens. Slow, torturously slow.

Ermal closes his eyes for a moment, but opens them again, he cannot stop looking, they look so _good_ together in the darkness, framed by the mirror with silver embroidery.

Finally, the last button falls victim to Fabrizio’s hands, and Ermal for a moment wishes he’d just torn it off, broke this strange bubble of tension, made a decision for both of them, made him forget about all attempts to run and hide, to close off and pretend he doesn’t want any of this. But Fabri waits for his response, gently helping him out of the shirt, and Ermal burns at his small touches, skin on skin, hot, _too hot, god, he’s losing his mind._ It’s scary, and even the careful way Fabrizio brushes his fingers over his ribs cannot help it.

He has to get a grip. A minute ago he was boiling with anger, now he’s boiling with excitement, one kind of tension easily melted into another with sure, skilled hands, and he wants to scream at how unfair it is, how he hates being so much under Fabri’s power, hates obeying each gesture and looking at him with concealed hope that he might continue.

That their dance around each other wasn’t just a figment of his imagination.

That everything happening right now is only a proof of something he knew long ago, a proof that he didn’t imagine just how much Fabri likes touching him all the time, how much he enjoys all those friendly hugs, and how desperate he is to make them less friendly. To throw away all pretenses and shove him into the wall of this elevator, make him forget all about his doubts and fears, kiss them away with frantic lips.

Instead Fabri steps back with a smile, composed and in control, quite unlike Ermal, who’s almost gasping for air, lips half-opened and eyes clouded.

“Now it’s all better, isn’t it?” Fabri says, shrugging.

Ermal steps forward to put more distance between them, turns around to finally look Fabri in the eyes, because seeing his hands through the mirror, dark skin and darker tattoos, stark in contrast with his own white body, is too much right now.

Not that standing with his back to the mirror is better, because now Fabrizio doesn’t look at him through the glass, doesn’t watch his reflection, he just slides his gaze over his naked, naked skin, almost leaving a burning trace behind, like a brand, and stopping somewhere below the belt level. Ermal feels a wave of heat starting from here and swallows, tries to lick his dry lips, but his mouth is dry, too.

It’s too damn hot in here, and it’s all Fabrizio’s fault.

Fabri is still smiling, almost as if he didn’t feel this tension, as if nothing was happening and they were just two friends trapped in an elevator, no unresolved feelings between them, no craving under their skin.

It drives Ermal mad, makes him want to shove him, press him into the wall, _feel_ that he’s as affected as Ermal is, that he’s only restraining himself to mess with him, that he wants it all as much as he does –

“I bet you’d like it even better if there was someone else suspended here with you,” Ermal says, almost without thinking, adding a spoon of poison into his voice for good measure, and refuses to avert his eyes and to put an end to this battle of gazes. He’s losing it so quickly his head is spinning, but there’s still all this energy buzzing under his skin, and if it’s anger or just desire, he won’t confess.

“What do you mean?” Fabrizio asks, frowning, as if he really doesn’t get it, his hand suddenly on Ermal’s hip, tips of his fingers barely touching the skin, but it feels like another brand, like a mark of belonging. If only he’d move those hands higher, slowly gliding them over his sides, slowly caressing him, making him burn with anticipation… but Ermal won’t allow it, even though he wants it more, much more than this elevator to bring him to his floor. Maybe even more than to have an opportunity to run away.

Retreating now seems almost impossible, and as Ermal takes a small step forward, he eyes Fabrizo’s lips, wondering how good they will finally taste on his. He licks his own absent-mindedly, and almost feels Fabri watching him do it. Not as indifferent as he was a couple of moments ago.

“You seem to enjoy Elisa’s company much more than mine those days,” he whispers, and they are so close right now, he can feel Fabri’s short breath on his face. Some of his frustration seeps into his calm voice. There was this game between them, _their_ game, and he thought Fabrizio was as much into it as he was, that they were just waiting, putting it off until both of them are ready, until this tension between them blows up.... And then Fabrizio starts spending time with this woman, flirting and making Ermal _boil_ with anger and jealousy, making him question every single word and gesture between them, all those unsaid, unresolved feelings. “Fuck, Fabri! I still don’t get why you didn’t stay. _She_ won’t need help undressing for you.”

Fabrizio makes a visible effort not to smile this time, but the corners of his lips quiver dangerously.

Ermal breathes in, trying to contain a sudden burst of rage at this sight, because _it’s not fucking funny,_ and if Fabri even tries to make a joke now instead of answering his very carefully veiled question –

“But I like helping...” he tries, and with that damn _smile_ again, daring him to wipe it off his face.

Ermal seethes.

The boiling feeling explodes in the pot of his chest, the lid flying off with a loud,

loud

BANG

And as it does, Ermal rushes forward and kisses him, because he hates this grin, hates the way Fabrizio’s body feels so good against him, hates his hands, one still on his hip, another in his hair, tugging at his curls as if someone gave him the right to, hates the way he licks into his mouth, hates _Fabrizio_ so much he wants to suffocate him with kisses – as if there was no air anymore, and the only way to live was to catch it from Fabri’s lips, to steal it away from him, because _how dare_ he smile when Ermal is on fire. Damn all the tension, all the unpronounced bullshit and everything else, to hell with his fears and rationalizations, to hell with thinking.

There’s nothing tender about this kiss, only barely restrained desire, which becomes less and less restrained as Ermal bites on those soft, full lips he’s been dreaming about, as he hisses, feeling Fabri smile again, against his mouth, as they move, hungry, looking for more. Ermal _wants_ , throbs with desire, as he finally tears himself away and watches Fabri look at his mouth, watches him chase after him, but doesn’t let himself get caught. 

He stops. The strange fit of rage has passed and the scared beat of heart under his skin suddenly becomes so overwhelming, that Ermal has to take a moment to collect his thoughts. Losing control, as sweet as it sounds, never brought him anything except shame and regret.

But Fabri’s been an exception to almost every rule in his book.

“Elisa is a beautiful woman, yes,” Fabrizio shrugs, licking his lips, adjusting his shirt, still halfway on his shoulders, and continuing their conversation as if nothing happened, completely missing the question pronounced and the question implied, and not even bothering to look embarrassed about any of it. He looks… content.

Ermal wants to hit him, wants to kiss him again even more and to throw the damn shirt to the floor, but instead he lets out a laugh, trying not to sound bitter, and turns to the mirror, pressing his forehead into the relatively cool glass. The worst thing is, this thoughts about Elisa don’t really bother him for all his talk, his body is still thrumming with desire, shivers running down his spine at the very gaze of Fabrizio. Deep down he knows, someone like Elisa can never touch whatever they have, can never spoil it, even if Fabrizio feels sometimes compelled to remind him he’s not the only person in his world. Ermal doesn’t know why he does it – to test his power over him, to sate his own desire, or just because he likes it, but he cannot pretend anymore that he can resist.

He still tries.

“You’d make a lovely pair,” he almost chokes on his sarcasm, but he doesn’t really think about what he’s saying, because his pants are almost painfully tight now and he still hasn’t caught his breath.

“She wouldn’t talk that much, that’s for sure,” Fabrizio mutters and Ermal finds himself back in his hands somehow, mirror in front of him again, as if they were doing the steps of a strange dance. “Elisa is a clever woman, whatever you might think of her… and she knows exactly what she wants. Do you?” he says that in a hoarse whisper against his ear, and Ermal swallows a gasp as Fabri presses into him from behind, naked chest against his naked back, a new explosion of heat. Tight pants might not be only _his_ problem, judging by the way Fabri sighs into his skin, closing his eyes for a moment. Ermal bites his lips not to let himself grind back.

 _Yes,_ he might answer. He knows what he wants, or else he won’t be in this situation at all, he would be in his corner, throwing daggers at Fabrizio with his eyes, because it wasn’t really _that_ hot before they started taking off clothes. Of course he wants this, all of this, he wanted it yesterday and a month ago, he wanted it even in January, maybe from the first time they met and Fabri licked his lips, red with wine, and shook his hand firmly, eyes interested and alert. But there are so many things, so many fears and problems, and his own insecurities staring at him from the mirror right now with tired dark eyes, there are a lot of buts. He really isn’t Elisa. Nothing is simple with him.

“So, you think she’s cleverer than me,” Ermal says, completely ignoring the question, too, because he can, and because he doesn’t want to admit the simple fact that he _cannot_ give a yes or no answer to this question even with a knife to his throat. Even if he knows what answer he wants to give. Fabrizio sighs into his ear, kisses the skin of his neck and then bites it, leaves teasing patterns with his tongue, tugs on his hair slightly, so that Ermal would recline on him slightly, exposing his throat. So white, so in contrast with his red cheeks and Fabri’s darker skin but becoming pinker under the insistent lips. Ermal lowers his eyelids not to see himself. It’s an embarrassing sight – curls all over his face, disheveled and sweaty, lips red from biting and kissing, body aligned along Fabri’s, all his attention concentrated on the points of contact. And on the thumbs, gently caressing his hips, edging under the pants, sizzling hot on his skin.

It's not that hard to admit to his reflection that right now he’d let Fabrizio do anything to him. Undress him, play him like a guitar, put him on his knees or bend him over – it doesn’t matter, he’d still beg for more. The thought is as much unsettling as it is arousing, and he feels so alive suddenly, with Fabri’s fingerprints burning all over his body, where he has just touched him, breathless from anticipation, drinking in all the sweet tension between them. God _yes,_ he wants it.

“In certain… ah, areas, yes,” Fabri says, his hoarse voice quiet in his ear, and he sucks lightly on his earlobe before finishing his thought, punctuating it with Ermal’s frustrated sigh. “But that’s just because you are so stubborn.”

“And you like the challenge,” Ermal breathes out and presses into him even harder, firmer, feeling him with all his body, feeling him flinch from the suddenness of this proximity, feeling him exhale and inhale. Inhale him, as Fabri softy presses his nose into his neck, and then replaces is with his lips again. Kisses a wet path slowly, leaving a slightly red trail. His hands, meanwhile, travel higher, a light caress on his chest, and Ermal lets out a sweet sigh, biting his lips again, almost bleeding now from all the torturing.

“Look, Ermal,” Fabrizio whispers in his ear. “I want you to look at yourself. And at me.”

Ermal obeys, when he feels a hand tilt his chin down, takes in the picture in the mirror, storing it for later. Memories are the best focal points for fantasies, that much he knows for sure. He might call himself an expert on fantasies, for it seems to be the only thing he always gets.

And anyway, he likes watching, even though he’d prefer to see more Fabrizio and less himself, bent to his will and barely standing up.

One of Fabri’s hands slides lower, impatient, caresses him through the fabric of his pants, and Ermal has to bite his lips very hard not to moan, but it moves away too soon. Instead, the kisses on his neck grow even bolder, and Ermal forgets himself, letting out a couple of embarrassing little sighs, his legs giving out each time Fabri grazes his teeth on his skin, each time he smiles against it, while his hands squeeze his hips. There are a lot of red spots between his neck and shoulder now, he can see it in the mirror, and those marks are beautiful, he wants more of them, all over his body, he wants _Fabrizio_ , closer and right now. He’s so tired of all the tension and slowness, of his own imposed limits, of everything that prevents him from breathing him in right now, touching him skin to skin, getting as close as he dares without exposing his heart.

He can’t even remember why he waited so long for a simple physical pleasure, why he agonized over this decision and couldn’t let himself just have what he wants.

It’s scary how little it took to make him forget.

“Please,” he sighs, licking his lips again, and they hurt badly, swollen. Fabri stares at him through the mirror, fingers stopping on his belt.

“What?” he asks, and Ermal huffs, irritated. Now that his resistance has fallen and he has laid most of his cards on the table, stopping with excuses and pretenses, it feels so liberating that he suddenly wants _everything_ , everything he ever imagined and dreamt of, everything and right now. Lust and greed have never been his sins, he’s too rational for them, too thoughtful and calculating, but Fabri looks at him with fiery eyes through the silver glass, and he shudders and _wants. Now,_ while they have the chance, before they miss the moment. 

“You want me to say it, don’t you?” Ermal gasps, a small movement of his hips granting him a little relief, and he isn’t even ashamed of the sounds he makes anymore.

“I enjoy hearing you talk, yes,” Fabri smiles, stopping his kisses for a moment. “But in this case, I really don’t know what you want unless you tell me.”

“What a bastard,” Ermal whispers and rolls his eyes, unamused. If Fabri thought he’d be embarrassed to say it, he’s very much wrong, he’s never been shy in bed, or, well, in any other places during sex, and right now he doesn’t care at all about his dignity. He’s tense, pulled like a string in Fabrizio’s skillful hands, and he wants more, wants it _so_ much. “Please fuck me already,” he says sweetly, and watches Fabri flinch and swallow, feels his fingers digging into his skin a little. There is time for secrets and there is time to be blatant, exactly like Elisa would be.

“Ermal…” Fabrizio breathes out, hides his face in the side of his neck, and his voice sounds strange as he speaks against his skin. “I’m not going to fuck you in the elevator.”

His words say one thing, but his eyes, when he lifts them again, burn with desire, and Ermal _sees_ his greed for touches, for proximity, for _more_ reflected in them.

“Ah, so you’re saying you don’t want it?” Ermal looks right into his face through the reflection as he grinds back very carefully, slowly, and the clothes don’t even remotely conceal the fact that Fabri wants it, wants it badly. “Who’s making this harder for us both now?”

His words might really make one of them harder, but that would be a terrible pun.

Fabri’s hands steady his hips, and it’s very easy to see in the mirror how he breathes slowly, restraining himself. Ermal doesn’t get it. Why stop if they both finally said what they really want? When there are no more secrets and hushed glances, only the obvious truth, and he doesn’t have to pretend and play anymore.

He even _asked_ for it, goddamnit, what more can Fabri want, begging?

Shouldn’t he take what he wants while it is offered?

“Of course, I want you,” says Fabri, lowering his gaze. Ermal’s heart loses a beat, because his tone is suddenly so serious, because he might say something they’ll both regret in the morning, and he tenses up immediately, turns in his hands to kiss him and shut him up, because talking… talking only ruins everything, really. But he isn’t quick enough, because Fabri looks him straight in the eye, not through the mirror, and it’s like a shock through his heart, too close, to intimate. “But I’m a romantic at heart, you know it, you mocked me so many times for it… and I don’t want just a quickie in the elevator with you, understand?”

Ermal swallows, tries to smile.

“You sound like a schoolboy, afraid to scare off his first girlfriend. We are adults, Fabri, I don’t care if – “

“I do,” he sighs, closing his eyes. “I care about this. And about you.”

Ermal sighs, too, and kisses him, feeling both delighted and terribly uncomfortable, because he doesn’t feel ready for confessions, his feelings are a mess and he can’t sort through them, can’t give them a simple name and be finished with it, _can’t_ tell Fabri how much he matters to him. He might be able to write something later, maybe to sing it, but right now all he can give is tenderness. Fingers in his hair, trailing through his locks lightly, tugging playfully, fingertips on his cheeks, caressing his jaw, then his shoulders. A couple more kisses on the lips, on the chin, almost chaste. Saying things without really saying them is his specialty. Maybe Fabri will understand. He should know already that Ermal is so, so slow with understanding his feelings, and takes pronouncing them out loud too seriously. But words do matter, and empty promises hurt more than silence.

He’s suddenly able to breathe more freely, some of his fears seeping away, and a tired smile returning to his lips. Fabri _cares._ He won’t stop touching him once they let some steam off, he won’t pretend nothing happened, either.

“But I still can make you feel good,” Fabri whispers into his lips when they part between kisses. The urgency is still there, drumming under their skin, making them press firmer into each other, making both gasp, short of breath and of patience. The shirt finally ends up on the floor. “Although I’m shocked you even asked,” he smiles, amused, and his smile is different now, bright and soft, intimate, and it’s so close Ermal can touch it. He prefers kissing it. “And right where people might see us… you are an adventurous type, aren’t you, Ermal?” Fabri teases him, kisses him again, slow, never quite giving him enough, and his hands move on his lower back, lower, squeezing him against himself, as if already regretting his refusal. Ermal moans, frustrated, squirming in his hands, probably leaving finger-shaped bruises on his naked shoulders, delighted to finally touch them. He’d run his fingers, his mouth all over those tattoos, staining Fabri’s skin, but urgency is preying on them both, and he cannot make himself slow down in this freefall. 

“You can’t even imagine,” he rasps and rubs into Fabri’s hips, tearing a moan out of him. There’s too much clothes between them, and he wants to take everything off, to touch, but Fabrizio is right to remind him that they are still in a public place. Any minute the doors can open without any warning and people might see them, might see him like this, a moaning mess, clinging to Fabrizio, disheveled, his shirt off and traces of kisses all over his throat. Instead of being scary, this picture brings a surge of excitement through his body, because maybe he won’t mind everyone seeing that Fabri is _his_ , that he, too, has those red traces of his bites, he, too, is breathing heavily and moaning against his skin. “If you are so afraid, just make it quick,” Ermal adds with a sly smile and punctuates it with another movement of his hips.

“What’s the fun in that,” Fabrizio mumbles, kisses the smile off his face, and Ermal can’t restrain a small whine against his lips.

“Please,” he sighs again and this time, Fabri actually listens, changing their position. And somehow, Ermal is in front of the mirror again, Fabri pressed against his back.

“You really like having me like this, don’t you?” he murmurs, and then his voice breaks, as Fabri pulls his zipper down, lowering his pants. His breath is hot in his ear, and Ermal can clearly hear how it hitches when he finally touches him, skin on skin, careful fingers running back and forth. He’s been waiting for this so long, he’s more than ready, and he has a very hard time trying not to let out too loud sounds. Someone might hear them outside.

“I can see every single reaction like this,” confesses Fabri, a hoarse sigh in his ear, and he doesn’t even try to pretend being unaffected. It’s Ermal who always pretends, and seeing how open, how sincere Fabrizio is with his reactions, drives him crazy, makes him pant even harder, pushing into his fist erratically. “Every time you shudder, I feel it, every time you close your eyes and bite your lips, I see it in the mirror, see your face, and the way you restrain your sighs beautifully…”

Ermal whines, because Fabri, talking into his ear like this, touching him, looking at him with those eyes, dark with wanting, and his hands, greedy, moving on him fast, the fingertips of his other hand caressing his chest, his throat, light on his flush and sweaty skin, the hoarse breath; all of it makes him lose his head completely. Every dream he had, every feverish fantasy, they didn’t prepare him for that. He wanted this, but he never imagined that it would be so intense.

“Still wishing it was Elisa here, with you?” Ermal breathes out, and he must really be bitter, if he cannot forget about her even _now._ But it’s something annoying in the back of his mind, something that prevents him from letting go completely, a nagging doubt in his soul.

“I never said I wished she were,” Fabri squeezes him tighter and Ermal yelps, scratching his hand in retaliation. It’s probably a mistake, because Fabri immediately slows down with his caresses. “It’s you who’s bringing her up again and again, one more and I might think you were not jealous over _me,_ sweetheart.”

“I am not _jealous_ ,” Ermal hisses, offended both by the suggestion and by the pet name, but he cannot sound angry when he’s on the edge, when he needs so little to tip over, but still can’t get it, cause Fabri, apparently, enjoys making him squirm. _“Please,”_ he breathes once more, his head rolling back on Fabri’s shoulder. With every slow motion of rough fingers against him he pushes back into Fabri’s hips, feeling his erection right where he wants it, rubbing insistently, and _god_ why did he refuse to just do what they both wanted, what they _needed_. “Tell me,“ he begs, eyes squeezed shut and mouth half-opened, embarrassingly high sounds escaping him again and again. “ _Tell me you – “_

“Tell you what, Ermal?” Fabrizio moans hoarsely, and Ermal feels his teeth torturing his ear, tries and fails to answer. The fingers on him stop completely, as Fabri teases the tip with light caresses and sighs hotly into his neck, “what? No answer? You talk and talk, you just can’t let it go, you think I like her more than you, and that's so stupid, cause what I want…” his fingers press harder into Ermal’s side, as if trying to get under his skin, “… _all_ I want is to press you into this mirror, to make you _scream_ against it as I fuck you, make you moan so loud, everyone in this fucking building hears us, so that no one, no one dares flirting with me again, cause they’d know for sure I don’t want it, I don’t, I really don’t, _I want only you_.”

Fabri bites his neck, hard this time, quickens the pace of his hand, but Ermal doesn’t even need this anymore, he opens his mouth in a silent scream as shudders in his hands, as he comes violently, almost falling down to the floor. Fabrizio holds him up, whispering something sweet in his ear, something Ermal would mock him for if only he dared to bring it up again. He knows he won’t. He’d be terrified of those words, would smooth them over in his memory, make them incomprehensible gibberish, and not because he doesn’t want to hear them, he does, more than anything.

He just doesn’t know if he is ready for them.

But maybe Fabri will repeat them again until he isn’t able to hide behind the thick walls of his insecurities, until he explodes with all those unpronounced feelings, until he snaps… just like today.

Ermal lifts his head slowly from where it has rolled on Fabri’s shoulder, pants, squinting at Fabri’s face in the mirror. He looks flushed and a bit dazed, but he doesn’t move at all except for wiping his hand on Ermal’s pants and doing them up carefully. He suddenly doesn’t look as confident as before, and Ermal can almost perceive a shadow of something in his gaze, in the way his fingers start tapping on his hip, and he doesn’t understand, there’s nothing to fear, no one has seen them, no one will talk, there is no threat –

Fabri kisses his ear, hiding his face, insecure.

Ermal doesn’t really get it, doesn’t understand completely, but he feels so safe in Fabri’s hands, so warm and happy, if only for a short time, that he just smiles and shifts closer, caressing the hands around his body, intertwining their fingers, kisses the underside of his jaw, turning his head slightly. It’s strange to see Fabri like this, vulnerable, because he shows this side of himself even more rarely than Ermal does.

“I think, I’ll text Paolo again, he doesn’t seem to hurry,” says Fabrizio suddenly, tearing his gaze away from the mirror, embarrassed, and starts to fiddle with his phone. He types a couple of words for what seems like an eternity.

“Fabri…” says Ermal, a suspicion suddenly turning into a certainty. “Did you even text him… earlier…?”

Fabrizio looks at him with wide eyes of a deer in headlights, stopping his typing.

“Uh,” he says, very eloquent, and takes a step back. “Sorry. I just really wanted to talk to you, to clear the air… why are you smiling?”

“So, you only did it… to talk?” asks Ermal, and cocks his eyebrow, adjusting his pants.

“No,” Fabri smiles, watching him do it, “no, I wanted to do a lot of things to you in an elevator since I saw how much you like taking photos of yourself in the mirror.”

Ermal starts, as always, when Fabri says something like this.

“Maybe you can show me later,” he finally says, swallowing, and with a hint of a promise. He watches Fabri finish the message, the silence between them less oppressing and more comfortable now, although Fabri’s fingers shake slightly, as he struggles to concentrate on texting, because Ermal is still looking at him, licking his lips. And wincing, because they really do hurt, raw and red.

“What?” Fabrizio asks, unsettled before this gaze.

“Nothing. I just figured out what I want, and isn’t it what you were trying to make me do all along?” Ermal takes another step forward, Fabri takes two more back, pressing into the wall. They both feel the moment when the power balance between them shifts barely, almost imperceptibly, and now it’s Ermal who smiles dangerously, and it’s Fabri who’s unable to move. “You know what it is, Bizio?” His voice is sweet as his fingers slowly fiddle with Fabrizio’s belt, as he breathes out words quietly, intimately, into his lips, almost touching them. But he doesn’t allow the kiss, moves away, slowly slipping to his knees in front of Fabrizio. He has many, _many_ fantasies, and why not satisfy at least some of them right now?

Fabri lets out a small sound and the phone falls out of his hand, his fingers now in Ermal’s hair, pulling to tell him to just _move._ Ermal laughs against his skin, revealed under the lowered pants.

“Paolo’s finally working on our rescue,” he says, satisfied, as he looks down on the screen, alight with new messages from their manager. “I guess now _you_ will have to be quick and quiet.” Fabrizio swears under his breath and his hand tries to guide him, but Ermal doesn’t let him. It’s his turn. “And I can’t promise I’ll make it easy for you,” he teases as he opens his mouth, and a couple of floors down, where Paolo is nervously texting them not to worry, a strangled moan echoes from the shaft of the elevator.

“It’s fucking haunted,” says Fabrizio, when they are finally out, hair all messed up, shirts buttoned up in a hurry, Ermal licking something away from his lips with a complex expression on his face. “Did you hear all the moaning and growling? The hotel manager should call an exorcist or a priest!”

Ermal chokes on a laugh and tries not to look too smug. The elevator workers’ skeptical gazes follow them to the door of the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> ugh, i feel like i should apologize for this trash xD 
> 
> p.s. special thanks to beavers <3


End file.
